When I was three I loved the color pink. Pastel, neon, magenta; pink was my color.  My cerise coat and my bubblegum rain boots sat in the kitchen, ready for every outing. Barbies lined my wall and stuffed animals took up half my bed. When I was eight I hated the color pink. Blacks, greens, blues— these made up my whole wardrobe. I rejected femininity,  appalled when someone called me girly. I deemed myself a tomboy . Pink was a color for popular pretty girls. That was not who I was. I am fifteen now, and I like the color pink. Not my favorite color, that’s blue. But pink has made its way back to my room. A hot pink hat, a salmon pencil holder. I realize now that I never hated the color pink. I hated being viewed as weak,  for simply loving a color. I hated being treated as dumb, because no smart girl could ever love  something as silly as the color pink.